


An Excellent Singlestick Player

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Euphemisms, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:45:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock Holmes – his limits</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>11. Is an excellent singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.</i></p><p> </p><p>Watson wonders what singlestick is and is rather surprised by the answer. Porn ensues.</p><p> </p><p>PWP written for the Come At One challenge, very quickly and without beta. Apologies for any mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Excellent Singlestick Player

Years ago, when I first met Holmes, I made a list of his limits. For the purposes of the incident I intend to recount here, only one part is relevant.

_Sherlock Holmes – his limits_

_11\. Is an excellent singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman._

This snippet of information came from a brief conversation we had one evening a few weeks after we had first moved into 221B Baker Street.

I had been to see a friend who I had known from my rugby days, and came back with various items, including a rugby ball, that he had kept for me whilst I was in the Army. I set it on my desk before settling in my chair, opposite where Holmes was wreathed in smoke and furiously puffing on his pipe.

“A rugby player,” he said. “That would be how you injured your wrist, between five and seven years ago.”

I stared with disbelief at him. I was not then used to his habit of casually announcing facts about my life story to my face, although it did not take too much longer for me to accept it as one of his foibles.

“Indeed,” I said. “It was six years, exactly. How on earth-”

“Oh, simplicity itself,” he said, waving away my curiosity. He did not, at that time, deign to give me any explanations for his deductions.

I sought to continue the conversation in a different direction and so gain further information about my new housemate, who I was becoming overly interested in. “Do you participate in sports?”

Holmes snorted. “Rarely,” he said. “I am an excellent boxer, although I do not tend to practise much these days.” He gave me an odd little smile, and added, “And I am swordsman, of course. I am well-practiced at singlestick.”

I had no clue what singlestick might be but I did not want to admit my ignorance, so I merely nodded and let the conversation die.

After that, Holmes mentioned singlestick several other times, particularly once he had taken to including me in his work and we had become friends. 

I can remember him emerging from his bedroom for dinner one evening, looking rather more rumpled and flushed than was his wont. I commented on his appearance and asked him if he had been exercising.

He looked rather surprised, and then let out a short laugh. “You could say that. I was engaging in some singlestick practice.”

I nodded as if I understood what he meant, all the while burning with curiosity. What kind of a sport was it that he might practice in his room and raise his blood so much whilst doing so, but that I would hear nothing from the next room?

Two days later, I resolved to clear up the matter once and for all. I was reading my book in front of the fire while he sorted through some papers at his desk. As the sky darkened, he finished his task and came over to join me in front of the fire for a smoke.

Fighting to keep my voice as casual as possible, I said, “Holmes, I was wondering if I might ask you for something?”

“Of course, old fellow,” he said. “Ask away; I cannot promise to grant it until you do.”

“I wondered if you might give me a demonstration of your singlestick technique,” I asked.

His reaction was most singular. He started and then gave me such a look as I had never seen on his face, surprised almost to the point of shock. He stared so long that the match he had been lighting his pipe with burnt down far enough to scorch his hand, and he was forced to toss it into the fire.

“You are sure?” he asked. “I did not think that it was the kind of thing you would find of interest.”

I was not sure how to take that, so I merely shrugged. “I am always interested in new experiences.”

He huffed out a laugh. “If you are sure, I should be happy to.” His voice dropped a tone. “I must confess to having wanted to perform for you, once or twice.”

Perform? Was it some form of dance, then? That did not seem like the kind of thing that Holmes would enjoy, but even then I did not fully have his limits. “I would be grateful if you did,” I said.

He glanced at the clock. “Mrs. Hudson will arrive with our dinner soon. Once she has taken it away again and we can be sure we won't be disturbed, I'll endeavour to provide you with an, ah, _edifying_ new experience.”

That seemed acceptable to me.

We sat through dinner, then when Mrs. Hudson had taken all the trays and withdrawn for the night, Holmes stood.

“I will prepare,” he said. “Stay here, then come in when I call.”

I nodded. I must confess that I was feeling a sense of anticipation that seemed out of proportion with the event. I think the delay imposed by dinner had heightened it rather more than a demonstration of sporting prowess really deserved.

When Holmes called for me, I set down the glass of brandy I had been drinking and went into his bedroom.

The sight that greeted me was not one that I had anticipated. I suppose I had thought he was rearranging furniture for the demonstration and, indeed, he had moved a chair next to the bed for me to sit in. The main preparation he had made, however, was to remove all his clothes. He was sat on his bed, leaning against his headboard with his legs spread, with nothing at all to cover him.

I stopped in surprise and said, rather stupidly, “Do you always practice in the nude?”

He was amused by that. “Oh yes,” he said. “I suppose you might say that I follow the Greek variant of the sport.” He waved at the chair and I moved forward to sit in it.

It is at this point that I must confess to having been unforgivably naive and slow on the uptake. I still thought that I was to be treated to a display of some sort of exercise or dance. No doubt any such readers as might have found access to this private journal are wondering how a man like Holmes could stand to associate with such an unrepentant simpleton. The truth is that I was just not expecting anything of that sort from Holmes, and did not even stop to consider it.

Holmes sent me a smirk and then settled back further into his pillows. He ran a slow hand down his chest, stopping to tweak a nipple before descending down his stomach, where his muscles quivered under his fingertips, and to his prick, which was starting to rise.

It was at this point that I realised what was happening. I think I started and certainly I inhaled with surprise. Holmes's eyes darted to meet mine.

As slow as I had been up until this point, I was very quick to realise I had two essential choices in that moment, with an optional third that I should not let myself consider. 

The first was the reasonable, respectable thing to do, which was to announce my mistake, make my apologies and escape the room as quickly as possible. The problem with that course was that it would lead to a great deal of awkwardness between us, and our friendship was unlikely to ever recover. Holmes was, even then, my closest friend. I could not stand the idea of losing him.

The second option, then, was to sit through this as if it had been what I expected, letting Holmes display his 'singlestick' prowess to me, and then leave with a friendly word and an intention never to speak of the incident again. I tried to think rationally about this choice, but I'm afraid my decision was rather coloured by my growing awareness of Holmes's attractive qualities, and that my own reactions to those qualities were not generally in line with what was considered respectable and proper.

The third option, the one I should not have even acknowledged to myself, was to take full advantage of Holmes's apparent eagerness to involve me in this aspect of his life and volunteer to assist with his demonstration. I suppressed the idea, although not before the image had burnt itself vividly into my mind and told myself that I would concentrate wholly on maintaining our friendship.

I had all these thoughts in less time than it took for Holmes to complete the movement of his hand and wrap his fingers around his prick. I returned Holmes's quizzical look with a smile that I hoped covered my reaction and made it seem nothing but interest in the proceedings. The touch of his hand to such a sensitive area distracted him from analysing my expression too intently and for a moment his eyes shut, as if seeking to concentrate his mind purely on physical sensations.

He did not begin to pull on himself then, as I would have done. Instead, he brought his other hand to caress over the skin of his stomach and up to his chest, where he again spared some time to manipulate his nipples. They had grown hard and erect, in the same way that his prick had, and I could see his lungs start to work with shorter, quicker breaths as his arousal grew. I clung to the arms of my chair and tried hard to remind myself that this was a mistake on my part and not the best thing I had ever been audience to.

I had had occasional experiences with other men, both at University and in the Army, but they had all been dark, furtive fumblings. Seeing Holmes's naked body spread out for my eyes to feast on, with all the lamps in the room turned up high, was like seeing something dark and ugly brought into the light for the first time, and discovering that it had been beautiful all along.

Holmes's grip on his prick tightened for a moment and he let out a breathy moan, and then he finally started to move his hand, pleasuring himself with long, slow strokes. I wetted my lips as I watched and felt my own prick begin to yearn to feel those same strokes itself. No, that was not to be. Crossing that line was a step too far, I told myself fiercely. My libido remained unconvinced.

Holmes's spare hand had never stopped roving. He seemed to want to run it over every part of his body, up to brush his thumb over his throat, and then down to sweep his palm along the inside of one of his spread thighs. His long, delicate fingers seemed perfectly designed for this task, and the pure sensuality of it, as well as the obvious enjoyment he took in it, was enough to increase my need to the point where I had to adjust myself within my trousers.

The movement drew Holmes's attention. Until then, he had been content to indulge in what I assumed to be his usual routine, with little or no accommodation made for my presence. He had barely looked at me after the start of it, except in tiny, darting glances that I suspected I was not meant to see. At this point though, he turned his full gaze on me, his eyes burning with such passion and desire that I was hard-pressed not to break and go to him. It was only the knowledge that his desire was not for me, it was for his own hand, that kept me in place long enough for common sense to take control again.

“Watson,” he said, and there was a throaty note to his voice that I had never heard before, and that I knew I would always after yearn for. “I hope you are finding this demonstration elucidating.”

I swallowed, attempting to take a grip on my responses so that I might answer with a steady voice. “It is most instructive,” I managed.

He smiled as if I had paid him the highest of compliments. “I wonder if you have any notes on technique for me? I think you must have played singlestick yourself, once or twice in the past.”

Now that I understood his euphemism, I smiled at it. “Possibly rather more than that,” I said.

“Well then, Doctor,” he said, saying my title in a voice that poured over the word like warm honey, “please give me the benefit of your experience. I am yours to guide.”

I must admit that my self-control was almost entirely undone by the sound of his voice saying that in such a tone, when my eyes were feasting on the movements of his hands and the way his prick had risen to such a height as to leave a wet mark on his belly. From my vantage point I had a full view of his body and the ways it was reacting to his actions. His face was beginning to flush and I could see the muscles of his thighs tensed into hard lines.

“Faster,” I said, before I could consider the wisdom of speaking. “Shorter strokes.” He complied with my commands without hesitation and his eyes slid shut again for a moment before opening wide and fixing on mine.

“More,” he breathed.

When he spoke in that voice, I had to comply. I took in his posture and the way his spare hand was now resting in the dip between his crotch and his leg, his thumb occasionally moving to smooth over his stomach. I had a sudden desire to see it elsewhere.

“Lift your right leg,” I said. “Bend your knee.”

He did so, rearranging himself so that he was tipped further backwards. My view was now such that I could see how his sack had begin to pull tight. I wondered if he was about to spend himself and then realised just how much I did not wish this to be over that quickly.

“Slow your hand again,” I said. “Just hold yourself for a moment.”

Holmes let out a frustrated noise that told me just how close to finishing he was, but did as I said. His hand stopped its movement, although I could see his fingers twitch with the need to move.

“Your thumb,” I said. “Pass it over the head.”

That pulled a moan from him and I looked up at his face to see him staring at me as if I were the only thing in the room. I could not keep myself from smiling at him and the thought flashed through my mind that I wished to keep him like this all the time, aroused and wanting and so ready to follow my instructions.

It was a treacherous thought. I had already told myself that this could only be a one-off event, after all. I was suddenly filled with the resolution that if it was to be the only time I saw Holmes like this, then I would make the best of it, and indulge every desire I had.

“Again,” I said, and he did so, moaning softer this time, but with no less feeling.

“Watson,” he said, as if a dying man begging for water. “I need-” He did not finish the sentence, but he did not need to.

“You may begin again,” I allowed. “Slowly. I do not want you to spill until I say so.”

I was worried that that statement might earn me a glare and a sharp comment about not being my servant, but instead he groaned and did exactly as I said. The feeling that created in me was heady in the extreme and I found myself leaning forward, my hands gripping tightly at my knees as I fought to keep myself from going to him and taking complete control of proceedings.

“Your other hand,” I said. “Bring it lower. Touch your balls.”

Holmes's breath hitched as he did so. He didn't take his eyes away from mine for a moment, and I was torn between watching the movements of his hands and getting lost in the lust in his eyes. My own prick was now hard enough to be uncomfortable in my trousers and I wanted nothing more than to open them and take myself in hand. I wasn't sure what was allowed, however. Holmes had only agreed to a demonstration of his skills; we had not discussed my own participation.

“Do you always practice singlestick alone?” I asked as Holmes rolled his sack between his fingers and tightened his grip on his prick at the sensation of it.

“Generally,” he gasped. “Certainly for the last few years. I find a good partner very hard to find.”

“Ah,” I said. That was not encouraging. “Lower, now,” I said. “Press the skin behind your bollocks. And your thumb across the head of your prick again.”

Holmes made a throaty noise that was loud enough for me to worry about Mrs. Hudson overhearing. I glanced towards the door.

“No need to fear,” said Holmes between pants of breath. “She will have retired to her rooms with a glass of sherry by now. She won't hear a thing.”

I think it says everything about Sherlock Holmes that, even in that moment, he was still clever enough to read my thoughts from a single glance. A wave of affection for him washed over me and I fear it shone out on my face as I smiled at him.

“A good partner,” he said, and I realised he was continuing the earlier conversation, which had all but slipped my mind in the glory of watching him. “A good partner would be warm-hearted, brave and confident with both his own, ah, singlestick, and my own. He should have a moustache, I think, both for aesthetic appeal and for the, ah, added sensations that it can provide.” His voice was breathy and stilted, but his eyes did not leave mine. “He would have to be extremely discreet, of course, possibly someone who is used to keeping his patients' confidences. I wonder, do you know anyone like that? I would be, ah, _eager_ to invite them to be my doubles partner if you did.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. I stared at him, bitterly torn by how to react. If I did join him, then there was no use in pretending that this was going to be a one-off occasion. If I had him like this, if I let my hands touch his body, then I would not be able to prevent myself from indulging in the same over and over again, until such a time as he became bored of me. Holmes, after all, was a man who enjoyed novelty, who grew bored with the commonplace and humdrum. If we did this, then I knew he would end it eventually, almost certainly at a time when I had grown too attached to him to be able to bear the loss easily.

“Watson,” he said. “Please. I can see your need is as great as mine.”

He spread his legs further, displaying himself for me as wantonly as any whore, and it was too much. My willpower broke and I surged out of the chair, falling on top of him to where I could replace his hand with my own and then press my mouth to the long, pale line of his neck.

He made a high-pitched noise that I am sure he would deny now, and arched his neck, allowing me full access to it. Under my hand, his prick was hard and hot, straining with the force of his arousal. It would not have taken long to bring him off like that, to undo him completely. I wanted to see that more than anything, wanted to watch his face as he came to glory at my touch.

Holmes had other plans. A moment passed, during which I revelled in having him pinned under me like that, then he pulled away, pushing at my chest to get me to move back. I did so immediately, half-afraid I had misunderstood his invitation, but he only let me go far enough to start working on my waistcoat buttons.

“Why are you still wearing _clothes_ , my dear fellow?” he asked. “I must have you naked.”

What could I do but give in? We tore my clothes away together, taking little care with them as they were flung to one side, and then he tumbled me onto my back and took his turn at stretching out over me.

“Watson,” he said, eyes darting over my body. “Watson, you are magnificent.”

I was not interested in letting him spend too much time in observation. I took his hips in my hands, curving my palms to the sharp jut of them as if we were made to fit together, and pulled him down so that our pricks rubbed together. We both moaned at the sensation, and I thrust up against him, feeling my prick rub over his skin as lightning bolts of lust shot through my body.

“Yes,” he hissed. “Watson.” He bent his head then and captured my lips, which I had not expected. Kisses took little part in my prior experiences with men and although everything about this moment was as different from those as day was from night, I still had not thought to consider them. Holmes's lips were firm and wanting, pulling from me all that I felt for him. I kissed back with a great deal of enthusiasm, bringing one hand up to drag my fingers through his hair and hold his head close to mine.

His hips thrust against mine again, and we fell into a rhythm, exchanging kisses between gasping breaths as we rubbed ourselves against each other's bodies. It was almost indescribable as a source of pleasure, and the hot ball of want in my stomach grew larger and larger, consuming all my rational thought. In that moment, there was only Holmes, only his mouth and his body, pressed against mine.

“May I?” he panted against my mouth. “You said- you said not until you let me. Watson, please, let me.”

It took me a moment to realise what he meant. My brain was hardly in a position to remember what I had said earlier, not until Holmes pushed against me and I felt how hard and desperate he was.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, Holmes. Finish for me, come on.”

It was like a switch. His clumsy kisses stopped and he clutched at my arms as he thrust against me and then shivered, spilling over my stomach with a gasp of my name. I held him as he shuddered through it, watching the ecstasy break across his face and feeling an oddly possessive thrill that I had been the one to put it there.

“Watson,” he said, once his breath had come back. “Oh, my Watson.”

He moved away from me just far enough to get his hand between us and down to where my own need was throbbing with want. He took me in a sure grip, pulling at me with a rhythm that very soon had me shaking from need, pushing into his hand and screwing my eyes shut to hold on to all the physical sensations.

I am not sure if I spoke when I came apart or if I just made an inarticulate noise. Holmes pressed a kiss to my cheek in an oddly affectionate gesture that my mind was too splintered to notice. Afterwards, he remained close to me, letting me take the time to recover but keeping his hands on my skin, stroking over it as if curious about the texture. I had half-expected him to want to examine the scar from my bullet wound, but he only showed it the same level of attention that he did the rest of my body.

When he did move away, it was only to collapse onto the pillow next to me, one of his arms still resting on my chest. I wondered if he was this physically affectionate with all his partners. It seemed rather out of character for the cold façade he put up in front of the world.

“That was rather a good bout of singlestick,” he said, sounding amused. “I hope it was everything you expected when you asked for a demonstration.”

“It was not at all what I expected,” I said, truthfully. “It was rather welcome, though.”

There was a moment's pause, and then he laughed and I knew he had realised how intolerably slow I had been. “Oh, Watson,” he said. “Had you never heard the term before? What do they talk about in the Army?”

“There were other, rather coarser terms for it,” I admitted.

Holmes continued to laugh. “I thought it seemed rather forward of you to ask for a demonstration in that manner.”

“Yes, that's fine,” I said, attempting to sound irritated by his amusement. “It worked out well enough for you, didn't it?”

His arm tightened around me. “It worked out extremely well for me,” he said. He hesitated, and the amusement fell from his face. “I do hope the shock wasn't too much. I wouldn't want you to regret this.”

I thought about my original intention to only observe in an effort to maintain our friendship, and my later decision not to let myself become too involved for fear of how this would end, and then matched it to the rare note of nervousness in his voice and the way he hadn't stopped touching me from the moment I had given my permission.

“No,” I said. “I couldn't imagine such a thing.”

Holmes relaxed. “Very good,” he said. “I hope you will agree to engage in the noble sport with me again, then. You really are an excellent partner.”

I don't believe there was any way I could have denied him, even if God himself had commanded me to. 

“Of course,” I said, and rolled over to press a kiss to his waiting mouth.


End file.
